The Case of the Unwritten Novel
by himitsutsubasa
Summary: Sherlock is an actor with an idea. John is a writer with no plot. Together, they are an immortal pair in the making. AU. Categories pending. Please offer suggestions.
1. Chapter 1: A Study in Pink: Part One

_Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer. Script starts next chapter._

It was just one of those days. One of those bloody days. The ones that made you go "Why? God, Why?"

He was frustrated. Sitting alone. In a café. In a secluded corner. And his head kept running around the same idea. The same bloody idea.

No one knew what went on in his head. A few wondered here and there. A few tried and failed miserably.

No. That was not relevant.

He kept his mind on the task at hand. The same idea popped up. He crushed it underfoot and tossed it out with the burnable trash. He would set it alight later.

Somehow, it regained its previous sticky consistency and attached itself to him again. This idea was enough to drive him insane. The same idea. Could it be?

As the door opened, he pulled the muffler closer to his face. Teenage girls. Judging by the uniform, they were from the local girl's only school. He shrunk himself down and scrunched away from them. They were the scariest.

He had gone online and saw what they wrote, day dreamed, and fought over. They were scary. What if one recognized him? It would start a media frenzy. Posts all over Facebook and Twitter. It would be horrible. But it all hinged on if they would recognize him.

"Him" being the great Sherlock Holmes, the most popular actor on the telly. He regretted joining the acting industry. He couldn't go anywhere without the media swarming him. His house in Devon was always covered on paparazzi. He found them plastered to his big country mansion 24/7. No literally. They were _plastered_ to his house.

He was twenty-seven, the perfect age for marriage. But it didn't suit him. Didn't suit him at all. Then, he wondered absent mindedly, if there was any way to fend off the fan girls permanently. No. Not without scandal.

Sherlock paid for his coffee and stalked out of the shop irked. He just wanted some peace. Sherlock Holmes wanted peace. It was funny.

Sherlock slipped into his sports car, lingering only a second to inhale the crisp new car smell. He put the car in drive and started weaving through the London traffic. Was that apointment supposed to be today? Oh, his mental bulletin board reminded him that his last scathing comment had put all interviews on hold. He was mostly free today. That wa sif the lazy writers would finish the script. Unlikely as the were all so bloody useless at their jobs. He felt something tug at him again.

The idea. It buzzed and buzzed. It was infuriating. Sherlock's grip tightened on the wheel. What could he do? _HE_ was an actor. Not a writer. He interpreted character. He brought them alive. He made ink into living breathing flesh. He didn't create them. But that little buzzing idea wouldn't stop beelining for his conciousness.

Who? Could he trust? Only one option satisfied him. Who else could he turn to? There was only one person who would keep it secret. It was a risk. Since when had he cared about risks? Sherlock found himself pulling into the farthest left lane. He was on his way to see an old professor.


	2. Chapter 2: A Study in Pink: Part Two

_Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer._

John was angry. No, that didn't quite cover his emotion. He was frustrated and hopeless. He tried writing detective novels to disastrous results. His first few stories had been published in The Thread, the local literary magazine. It was published by the local academy of literature. He had been so happy. It was great. Reviewers raved about his books. They loved the atmosphere and the descriptions. John made them feel like they were in the story. But, he had shortfalls. He was a naiveté and optimist. His plots were altogether too simple. Too predictable. "Predictable makes the world go round." His mother had told him every time he asked for something exciting. Predictable didn't pay the bills.

He looked at his blog screen. Nothing. His editor had been adamant that he keep his blog since most of his readers were part of the college community. But, he had nothing to say. John opened the word document. He had written only five lines of text in the past week. In other words, he was seven thousand words behind schedule. They weren't flowing. The words weren't flowing. He wanted to bang his head on his desk. But, he needed the brain cells to write. John wanted to slap his editor for rejecting his previous manuscript. He was given a month to write a new one. Or he was done.

John sighed deeply. Why? He had given up his practice. His brother had lost all faith in him. His parents considered him a loser. This was not what he wanted. This wasn't what he wanted. "Anger doesn't get nothing done." His mother's sayings again. John cradled his head in his hands. Who was he kidding? He would never be a great writer. He would never be famous for wordsmithery. The only time anyone would recognize his name was when they called him for his order. He would be plain old John Watson. Doctor. Writer. Loser. Nothing.

He got up and opted for the alternative to writing. Taking a long walk. A very long walk. John opened the door of his hotel room. You can't afford a place of your own with a writer's advance.


	3. Chapter 3: A Study in Pink: Part Three

_Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer._

The park was quiet. The park was peaceful. The park was nice. If you ignored the angry gentleman speed walking through it. John noticed as he passed some people gave him strange looks. Of course. He was a mess. An angry, and frustrated, and dissatisfied, and angry (Did he mention that already?) mess. He looked at the sky. Grey, dammit. Grey. It could at least be blue. He kept walking.

"John. John Watson." John turned on his heels startling the fellow. Short. Slightly shorter than John and John was five, six. He was pudgy, in a one-too-many-sweets sort of way.

_First to catch John's eyes was the tie. It was a red, gold, and white tie. John couldn't help but find it ugly. Well, extravagant at least. He wore a pair of brown metal rimmed glasses, which made his eyes appear smaller and did him no favor. He had a tan overcoat and a tweed jacket underneath. Last was the briefcase. Not new, but recently cleaned and serviced judging by the new polished clasp. _

John's subconscious screamed that the man looked familiar. But it couldn't place him.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Manchester together." The name drew up a picture in John's mind. The same fellow was in Harfield's English class. Not as chubby. But, still, the same childlike smile. John took the hand extended and shook it firmly.

"Sorry, Yes. Fine. Hello." John was surprised. He had barely spoken to Mike in the semester they shared a class.

"Yeah I know." Mike smiled and carried on mumbling something.

"Hello." John looked away. Why was he so friendly?

"Last I heard, you were out trying to get published somewhere. Well?" Mike leaned in. Eager. Interested.

"I got published."

They sat on a park bench. Awkward. So awkward. John sipped his coffee. Black. Black like the ash of his burnt manuscripts.

"So you still at Manchester then?" John tried to break the silence he created. It was just too stifling.

"Teaching now." Mike didn't meet John's eyes. "Bright young things like we used to be." He finally met John's eyes. "God, I hate them." Both laughed. "What about you? Are you staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

"You know I can't afford London on a writer's advance."

"Ah. You couldn't bear to be anywhere else. Not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not that John Watson." Mike took a long sip of his coffee.

"Couldn't Harry help?" John 's face took a dark turn. Mike was just trying to be nice.

"Yeah, like that's going to happen." He and Harry had been down a rough path. It kept getting worse. Then they parted ways.

"I don't know; get a flat share or something." Mike trying to be helpful, again.

"Come on. Who'd want me for a flat mate?" John joked. Stamford chuckled as if he realized something hilarious to John's chagrin.

"What?" John was a bit confused. It was funny, sure; hilarious, no.

"You're the second person to say that to me today." Stamford looked amused by the whole notion.

Curious, John asked, "Who was the first?"


	4. Chapter 4: A Study in Pink: Part Four

_Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer._

Sherlock sat in the library. He had spent many hours here away from home. And his prat of a brother. But now he looked at the recently published shelf.

"How fresh?" he picked up the novel on the end of the shelf. It was by some little known author.

"Just came in." Molly looked at the book. "670. Natural Causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."

Sherlock looked the book back and forth. "Let's start with the writing crop."

Sherlock scribbled away with the pen. It got more and more frantic until he started ripping pages out of the book. Chapters and chapters of leaves flew and fluttered around him. He made a flurry of ink and paper.

"Bad day at work was it?" The girl approached him with a shy smile.

He then wrote a quick note on the inside of the cover. "Text this to him and tell me what responses he sends within the next 20 minutes. His writing career depends on it." He kept writing on the cover.

"Listen, I was wondering maybe later when you are finished"

Sherlock looked at what he was writing, frowned, and did a double take.

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before." His eyebrows drew together in confusion.

"I refreshed it a bit." Sherlock eyed it suspiciously and turned back to his review.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"Listen, I was wondering…" She looked down, "if you liked to have coffee."

"Black. Two sugars. Thank you. I'll be upstairs."

Sherlock made his way back to the old practice theater and heard a faint "okay" from Molly. She just couldn't get it, could she? He didn't want to have coffee with her. He wasn't interested. But, if he let her down hard she would probably put out some scandal. Not to mention how she wouldn't pass on the reviews. As much as he wanted to be rid of her and her "Sherlock's eyes are pretty" fan club he required a person to be the messenger. He just hoped one would eventually shoot her.


	5. Chapter 5: A Study in Pink: Part Five

_Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer._

John walked once again through the empty halls.

"Wow. It looks the same." The same marble floors. The same oak doors. The same smell of old, decaying paper.

Mike pushed open a door that led to the theater. Mike had already showed John his tiny office. Now they walked down the long,(and new) red-carpeted aisle.

"A bit different from my day." John said to himself.

The only other person in the hall was a tall dark haired bloke on stage. He seemed to be reading a script or something. His hands glided through the air, a maestro. Emotion danced across his face like a young ballerina. Fear, shame, pride. All those feelings vanished as his face became a mask of terror. He held his hand to his heart, delicately brushing it over the fabric of his suit. His eyes were grey and huge. Staring at an unseen beast. John was glued to the floor of the first row. What was that man so afraid of?

"And scene." Stamford gave a small applause as the gentleman put down the script.

"Ah. Stamford do you have your mobile?"

"Sorry, left it in my office. Good work, though. If only you could do that in front of those prats in accounting. They wouldn't be so huffy about funding then. Why don't you use the landline?" Mike offered.

"No prefer to text." Now, John could have sworn he had seen the young man before. He looked familiar. A talk show? A news report? An ex's brother?

"Use mine." John held out his phone. A gift from Harry. He didn't like it. But, he needed it. "John Watson," John said, introducing himself.

"Published or unpublished?" John barely stopped himself from answering.

"Pub... How did you know that?" Mike grinned like an idiot when he caught sight of John' thunder stuck face. A girl bustled in and proffered a cup of coffee to the actor.

"Molly. The coffee." He took a sip and blinked at the girl. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"Oh umm..." She blushed profusely. "It wasn't working for me."

"Oh, really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth is too small now." He made a slight gesture to the mouth as he said so. John found the fellow's comment to be a bit harsh. Especially, when the girl, Molly, liked him. But, the girl only blinked in surprise and ran off.

"Do you like the violin?" He put down the coffee before continuing. "I tend to play when I think. I might act out scenes in the middle of the night. And sometimes I won't speak for days on end, would that bother you? " The young man clicked away on John's cell.

"Why would the violin…?"

He was cut off by the gentleman's snappish reply, "I think flat mates should know the worst about each other." John tried to keep from gasping as the young man handed back the cellular.

"Who said anything about a flat?"

The young man grabbed his long over coat from a seat. "I did," he replied airily, "I told Stamford this morning that I must be a hard man to find a flat mate for. And here he is back from lunch with a friend recently published and rejected. I know this little place in central London. The media is least likely to look there. We could share the space easily. I'll meet you there at seven tomorrow." He fixed his navy blue scarf and walked up the aisle. The actor was almost at the door when John found the courage to speak.

"Is that all?" The figure stiffened.

"Is what all?" His face seemed piqued with interest. At least, John hoped it was interest. The only other thing it could have been was murderous blood lust. That would be a bad way to start off a relationship. He summoned as much courage that could fit his tiny, blond frame.

"We just met and we're looking for a flat? We don't know the first thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." The other man fixed John with his firm, steady gaze.

"I know you are a writer recently published. You have also been rejected by your editor so you are tight on money. You have a brother, but you won't go to him for help. Probably, because he is a drinker, more likely, because he just walked out on his wife. Your editor also thinks your trust issues affect your writing. Quite right I'm afraid. Is that all? Good." He was almost out the theater entrance when he peeked around the door. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street." Sherlock winked with a click of the tongue. He was gone.

John's eyes must have conveyed the question he wanted to ask.

Mike nodded and said, "Yes, he's always like that."


	6. Chapter 6: A Study in Pink: Part Six

A/N: Sorry for the short chapters. I just like having them broken up by scene.

* * *

><p>John spent the rest of the day at the college. Mike had introduced him to several students. None had heard of him. Who would expect a bunch of kids who struggled to read the cereal box in their free time to read a mysteryaction novel?

Yeah. It still bothered him. He hoped for at least one to recognize him out of the class of a hundred. John took out his phone. The one that bothered him most was the old student of Mike's. Holmes. He looked at the recently sent messages.

"If writer makes guest b jump, fire writer. - SH"

He sank into his rotating chair and flipped on his computer. The default page was his blog. Still no updates for it. He opened a new browser and deftly typed in the name. Sherlock Holmes.

Exactly 57,670,000 hits assaulted his eyes. He clicked on the first hit, "SHERLOCK". Sherlock's face and the London skyline filled the background. Sherlock Holmes, actor.

On the foreground was his main filmography. His real life appearances had a little box to the bottom. Right to it there was a little shout-out box. John scrolled through a few. Mostly they were the screams of young women begging him to take them to bed. John could handle that. On the opposite side of the "Sherlock Stalker", as he decided to call the paparazzi box, that was a blog link. All it said was, "All Posts Removed." John's mouse went to the directory at the top of the page and clicked the "Gallery".

Images of Holmes appeared. Lounging on a couch or walking briskly on-set, John had to admit Holmes was handsome. In a strange, almost alien way. His light colored eyes stared into the camera as if he could see every person who would look at the photo and tell their life from their cufflinks. John moved his mouse to hover over the "Forum".

It was populated by fan girls. Mostly praises. Not much to see. The blog was empty. Under "Extras" there were a few interviews with Holmes. "Profile" was just that and a short biography.

John clicked the back button until he hit the results page. He jumped to the Wikipedia page. It had little more information than Holmes' site. Next he hit a movie website. It had its own short profile of Holmes. John went to the fourth link. He found the title dubious and prepared himself for a barrage of screaming teenage girls high on double shots of over-active hormones. Any website titled "Sherlock Holmes' Eyes are Beautiful" was dubious. John found fan boys too.

He winced as he read a few of the posts. They obsessed over Holmes' cheekbones. (John admitted they were nice but so much that they had their own pages?) They were riddled with spelling and grammar errors. It was horrifying.

Others were well written. Those actually offered some insight into Holmes. One that made John jump was written by a Molly H. The post detailed Holmes' visit to Manchester and his visit with the professor. There was a short mention of himself. Thankfully it left out his life story. It could only have been that library girl. In the comments below, several girls gasped at how luck Molly was. The other few ripped the girl saying Holmes would have never spoken to Molly. That bothered him more. Were teenagers supposed to be this vicious?

The fifth hit was a private website. Evidently created by a person of the same name, but what John saw matched what he heard that afternoon. Who exactly was Sherlock Holmes?


	7. Chapter 7: A Study in Pink: Part Seven

A/N: Sorry for the short chapters. I just like having them broken up by scene.

The script is, for the most part, taken directly from the episode. I don't own this beacuse if I did I wouldn't be typing this.

* * *

><p>John walked uncomfortably down the street. Baker Street to be exact. It was six fifty seven. He promised to meet Holmes at seven. Nineteen, twenty, twenty- one. 221b's door was situated next a little place called Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café. It was a quiet, clean street.<p>

Perfect for writing. John thought appreciatively. He noticed as the cab drove him there that a block away was a Chinese place and on the opposite corner was a 24 hour supermarket. Not far to walk. Good for late nights. But where was Holmes?

"Hello, John." Holmes emerged from his dark sports car. Speak of the devil. "Do you like it so far?"

"Yes. It is nice, Mr. Holmes." John added emphasis on "nice".

"Call me Sherlock." John nodded. John followed Sherlock as he strode up to the door and knocked.

"Mrs. Hudson offered me a special rate. I did her a favor a few years back. Her husband was an un-hired cameraman."

"You helped him get hired?"

"No. I ensured he wouldn't." Holmes gave him a tight, little smile. John knew the expression on his face was priceless.

A little old lady opened the door. Upon seeing the tall gentleman, she exclaimed, "Sherlock!" and gave him a quick hug.

Sherlock introduced them, "Mrs. Hudson. John Watson."

Mrs. Hudson ushered them upstairs.

All John could say was messy. With a capital M. No make that all CAPS. Papers littered a desk and formed piles on the floor. Books were everywhere. John thought he recognized the shape of an armchair but he couldn't be sure. A chemistry set took over the kitchen table. He wasn't sure what was in those tubes but it fizzed. It fizzed. Sherlock seemed perfectly okay with it all and meandered around the piles. John could make out there was a fireplace. He wondered if it worked. And if it could help them get rid of the papers.

"What do you think?" Sherlock queried.

"It's nice." John replied.

"Yes, I think so." Sherlock said making his way back to John. "My thoughts exactly."

"Well, if we throw out all the rubbish in here."

"I went ahead and moved in."

They interrupted each other.

"So this is all your stuff?"

"Obviously, I can straighten things up a bit."

Sherlock was on his feet. He moved a few piles to the already over-crowded desk. The rest was on top of a precarious pile of books. Sherlock then proceeded to take a few loos leaves and place them on the mantle. He then stabbed them with a jackknife. He muttered to himself, "this here" and "that there" as he worked.

John surveyed the newly uncovered chairs. His eyes traveled up to the other end of the mantle.

"It's a real skull?" Sherlock looked in John's direction.

"A friend of mine." That tight little smile emerged as he said darkly, "Well, I say friend."

John felt he was definitely out of his comfort zone. The skull cinched it. But, for some reason, he liked it.

"What do you think, Mr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson had just entered the room.

"There's another room upstairs, if you'll be needing it." John's eye brows drew together. He knew what it sounded like but…

"Well, of course we'll be needing two." He felt his head make that little twitch he did whenever he felt confused. Was she insinuating…

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened. "There are all sorts around here! Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She looked away. If he could read minds, John knew she thought he was in the closet. He wasn't in the closet. He wasn't even gay! John did a double take anyway.

"Sherlock, the mess you made." Mrs. Hudson began tidying up the floor space. And then headed off to the kitchen. John tried to get over the fact that for once in his life someone thought he was gay. He then pushed back the idea that Sherlock might be.

"I looked you up on the internet last night."

"Anything interesting?"

"I saw your website. 'The Science of Deduction'."

"What do you think?"

"Quite amusing, really."

"Amusing?" A look of mixed annoyance took over Sherlock's face.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and a retired plumber by his left hand." John said trying to prove his point. He wasn't the only one who thought that was crazy right?

"Yes and can read your publishing status by your face and your hands and your brother's drinking habits by your mobile phone."

Mrs. Hudson muttered to herself in the back ground. John felt his ears getting very hot.

"How?"

"You read the article. You tell me."

"That was absurd."

"But, I know his drinking habits. I even know he left his wife."

Mrs. Hudson held up what looked like a script. "What about this one, Sherlock? It looks right up your street. It's going to be rewritten from the looks of this fax."

John heard a car pull up the street. Sherlock peeked out of the window.

"Yes. I know." John balked when he saw the title.

"May I just ask, what is your street?" John felt nothing but confusion.

"It's been re-written again."

A grave and greyed fellow walked into the room. Definitely confusion.

"Where this time?" Sherlock asked.

"Brixton. Laurenston Gardens. Will you come?" The man had a pleading look in his eye.

"Who is on lighting?"

"Anderson." Sherlock's face showed a sudden change from cheer to hate.

"Anderson won't work with me."

"He doesn't have to work with you. He just has to light the set."

"But, he sets it into my eyes."

"You have to cry. Of course it will be in your eyes. Will you come?" The man looked tired and exasperated.

Sherlock paused for a second.

"Fine. But, not in the company car. I'll follow soon"

The man took it and left. John looked on during the whole proceeding. Then Sherlock jumped. He literally jumped. His arms waved close to his body as he twirled.

"It's Christmas! Finally! A good script. It can't be a good writer's week if there isn't anything interesting on the telly." Sherlock grabbed his coat and was off to his room. John was puzzled.

"John, have a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to be back late. Might need some food."

A distant, "not your housekeeper" rang out.

"Something cold will do."

Mrs. Hudson was back and standing by his chair.

"My husband used to be like that. Always running around. But, you're the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll go make you that cuppa."

"Thank you," John felt that if he was being ditched it wouldn't be too bad.

"And, some biscuits if you don't mind."

A distant, "Not your housekeeper." rang out.

Very puzzling, the whole Sherlock idea. Eh, it must have been an actor's thing. He picked up the entertainment magazine and flipped in a few pages. There was the face of the grave man. Greg Lestrade, director. He was working on a project, a romance drama. Guest starring, Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was back. He lifted a scarf from the hat stand.

"You are a writer. Any good?" Sherlock asked.

"Very good," John replied a bit offended that Sherlock thought otherwise.

"You've seen manuscripts get torn then? Obliterated completely?"

"Yes, far too much for one lifetime." John thought of all of his own rejected manuscripts.

"Want to see some more?" John couldn't stop himself after that.

"God, yes."

Sherlock and john ran out of the flat. John felt something rising in him. Excitement?

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, but well skip that cuppa. Off out."

"Sherlock. You shouldn't be so happy. A man's going to be fired. It's just not decent." The elderly woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Forget decent. The game is on!" Sherlock burst through the door in a flurry.

John followed Sherlock into the street and almost slammed into him when Sherlock stopped to disarm his car. John climbed into the passenger's side. The sound of the car's engine revving fired him up even more. Finally something interesting!


End file.
